


Hide and Go Seek

by SavageSavannah



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angry Dean, Angst, Anxiety, Gore, Homophobia, Hurt Sam, M/M, Panic Attacks, Smut, Wincest - Freeform, lots of smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageSavannah/pseuds/SavageSavannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Era AU in which Sam Winchester has been hiding from his brother for four years. When a vampire nest spawns in Sam's safe haven and draws Sam's fears of being discovered to the surface, he has to act now. Too bad for Sammy, Winchester minds think alike. </p><p>With his brother back in his life will Sam tell the truth about why he ran and face the consequences? Or will he pack his bags yet again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infestation

Sam Winchester tossed a towel over his shoulder and placed two jack and cokes on the bar in front of Carol and Rony Ingrum, two regulars. 

“How's the night been, Sam? Pretty slow?” Rony titled his head, causing his chest length, blonde beard to slip into his drink. His wife hiccupped a giggle. 

“Ronald, sweet pea, you’ll stain your hair!”

The old rancher started and brushed his shook his beard. “Knew I shoulda braided it up today!”

Sam smiled, it seemed his customer always intended to braid his beard. “Slower than normal,” he confirmed. 

“It's that serial killer!” Rony’s tone was stern and factual. 

“No,” Carol hollered. “Stop it right there.” She smacked the bar top with her glass, sloshing her drink about. “Don't you scare me or him with that nonsense Ronald! I won't  
hear it. Don't bring it up.” 

“You can't pretend he don't exist, Christmas Carol. The news talks about it. Sam here has heard it. I'm just makin’ an educated hypo-thesis.” Rony’s pronunciation was off. 

“Don't call me Christmas Carol when you're talking about sickos.” Carol crossed her arms and hummed a Bowie song along with the stereo. 

Sam pretended to straighten up behind the counter while Carol and Rony bickered. He thought they sounded very much like a sitcom. 

“Don’t you wanna know who’s being offed this week?”

Sam heard Carol choke out, “Crass, frigid, old bastard!” 

“Bah. You’re being silly. It’s better to be educated.”

“There’s a difference between educated conversation and tactless conversation.”

“And you think this is the latter,” Rony stated.

The discussion continued. Sam strayed away from any conversations about the recent murders in Moocroft, Wyoming. He wasn't worried or frightened by the town’s supposed psychopath, though if the killer really was human he might have been. Sam had no doubt that the murders were causing business to dwindle, but he knew that staying home behind locked doors bred false hope. Briefly Sam wondered how Rony and Carol would react if he tried to tell them that Moocroft had a vampire infestation. The thought made him shake his head with a sad smile. On occasion, he really missed having someone else around who knew what was actually going on in the world. On occasion he missed his brother, Dean. 

Still, Dean was the force that drove him here in the first place. Dean spawned the fear that gripped him. Not the vampires, but the possibility that his brother and father would be led here to hunt the monsters, and here they would find Sam despite how careful he had been to hide himself away. He absentmindedly swiped at droplets of spilled beverage on the bar top. 

Carol began to help him with her napkin, drawing him out of his own mind. “I'm a mess aren't I, Sammy? I'm sorry,” she cooed. 

Sam flinched. He couldn't help it. There was a time when only Dean called him Sammy. At nineteen he’d been ready to never hear that nickname again. He’d been determined to shut down anyone who used it. But every time he heard the variation of his name his throat tightened and he could only hide his pain with a forced smile. He should’ve taken a fake first name along with his fake last one, but somewhere within him he needed to hear that fucking nickname. He needed to pretend, most often at night when it was too exhausting to fight it, that every ‘Sammy’ came from Dean’s lips. 

“Don't call him baby names, Carol. He's a grown man, ain't that right Sam?” Rony downed his beer. 

Sam was grateful for the change of subject. He forced his demeanor to brighten. “Well, not as grown as you!” The joke was halfhearted but Rony didn't notice.

“Ain't nobody as grown as me around these parts!” Rony’s laugh sounded too much like Sam’s father’s. 

“Grown or not you’re both still some woman’s son. Bless both their hearts for raising you two jokers,” Carol’s additions to the conversation continued to be out of place and unwelcome, unbeknownst to her. 

Sam felt as though any more familial thoughts might suffocate him. 

Rony waived her off. “Well you and my dear mother can bless each other’s hearts and the hearts of all women at church on Sunday. Until then I got room for one more. Let us buy you a beer, Sam, then you can close up.” 

“Well he probably gets it free here, Ron!” Carol clapped her husband on the back. 

“He can buy us one the then!”

Again, Rony’s laugh struck Sam to the bone. It occurred to him just how much anxiety the thought of a twisted family reunion gave him. It'd been two weeks since the first vampire strike. Sam had become more paranoid and reclusive than normal in that short time. He had switched to night shifts with the hope that if any hunters came they'd be too busy working during the evening to stop by for a drink. He'd located the vampire nest after the first two attacks so he knew what streets and parts of town to avoid. He had considered more than once taking on the job himself just to get it done with…but Sam was not a hunter anymore and had no desire to follow those footsteps. He told himself that maybe a different hunter would come, maybe Bobby or one of his dad’s other pals; maybe one would come and leave without him even knowing. Maybe the killings would just stop and he would be content to believe some hunter put an end to it. But again, two weeks and the death toll was only rising. The waiting game was backing him into a corner. Day by day Dean could be drawing closer, and day by day every death felt like it was on Sam’s shoulders. 

Rony's laugh had turned into a spout of coughs. Carol smacked her husband’s back. Sam poured him a glass of water. 

“How about a rain check on that beer, Ron,” Sam suggested, he had determined he didn’t have time for a drink tonight. Carol shot him a thankful glance. 

“Yeah,” Rony was regaining his composure. “A rain check sounds better. But I won’t forget now! I’ll be ba--” he cut off, coughing again.

Carol smiled and fit the bill for their drinks. “I’m sure we’ll be back around tomorrow. Take care Sam,” she paused to glance around the bar. Rony was already making his way out. “Be safe,” she whispered at last. All joking and fun love had drained from her face. Her eyes stabbed into Sam’s. He could tell that she was more than a little shaken about the danger lurking in the small town’s corners.

Out of old habit Sam hid his crossed fingers under the bar the same way he used to hide them from Dean or his father. “Don’t worry, I will,” he lied. Sam hoped she couldn’t see right through him, because Sam had already made up his mind and constructed a plan, one that didn’t involve following Carol’s request.

If there wasn't a hunter in town yet, it would only be a matter of time. The thought brought bile to the base of Sam’s throat. What if his running—to Stanford, then to Moocroft—was all for not? What if the constant war between he and his father caught up to him? What would he say if forced to confront his brother about packing up and moving on from every trip they had planned and every college visit spent drinking beer and shooting the shit? Sam hadn’t called or written. He hadn't let Dean know that every night for a year, while they’d crowded into a dorm room bed, he’d crushed his face to the wall and pretended his brother’s breathing didn't cause his heartbeat to break every speed limit in the country. 

Sam stumbled into the parking lot towards his car. Sickening thoughts of his brother were causing his vision to blur. He was once and for all determined to ensure there was no need for any hunter to come to Moocroft. Sam popped his trunk, something he hadn’t done in months. He experienced an unwelcome déjà vu but swatted the thought away as he fastened a sheathed knife to his thigh. He tucked a handgun into the waistband of his jeans. It wouldn't be very useful with vampires, but it was yet another old habit that, even with every hunter and monster stricken from his, life he still couldn't let go of. Finally, he let his machete ride shotgun and started his engine. He left the radio silent.


	2. Run Till Your Lungs Give Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains gore.

Sam drove too fast down roads he’d spent two weeks finding ways around. When he saw his high beams approaching a condemned barn—wasn’t it always a fucking barn— on the right, he pulled off the road. He parked closer than he should have, nerves fueling his quick and reckless actions. He hadn’t hunted since he was seventeen and at twenty-three that thought scared him almost enough to make him turn around. But seeing his father, or worse his brother, scared him more. 

The night air swamped his car as he opened the door without a sound. It was neither cold nor warm to him. He checked his three weapons one last time, regretting his decision not to sharpen the machete before he left the bar. Nonetheless he couldn’t turn back now, knowing if he did his nerve would be lost and the death toll weighing on him, as well as the anxiety keeping him stuck in place, would never cease. His footsteps fell quiet on dew damp grass as he slipped his way towards the nest. Out of personal preference, and perhaps boredom, he’d worked hard to ensure that four years in Moocroft wouldn’t rob him of his strength or his grace. He adjusted his grip and sunk low as he moved. The moon was just a sliver, but it was bright enough for him to see a vampire lounging against a half rotten door with a grin on her face. She was licking her fingers. 

Sam paused behind a severed tree trunk that was strangled with ivy. He breathed in deep, pollen burning in nostrils. He saw the monster turn her back to him, watching around the corner of the building. When after a moment what she was waiting for still had not come, Sam broke into a sprint, knowing she could turn at any second and praying he could get close enough to kill her causing a ruckus. But the vampire turned too soon. She too began to run, a loud giggle escaping her lips. Sam had to take the chance that his aim was as good as it had always been. He threw his blade towards her as if it was a boomerang, and he got lucky. Her severed head dropped like a rock causing a small cloud of dust to rise. Her body wavered for a moment that was just long enough for Sam to reach her and catch it. He let the carcass down easy. 

Sam took the vampire’s place against the decaying wood. He counted out the seconds as he tried to catch his breath. He’d scooped up his machete and was holding it tight like a lifeline, hoping it was enough to keep him from drowning in his own blood. Too soon he heard a screech from inside and he burst through the barn doors ready to save a life. 

Six vampires spun on their heels to discover the commotion, allowing a hunter amidst the circle to sever the head of the monster on the far right. Over the sinking corpse Sam saw a face that for four years he’d only seen in nightmares. Sam could hear his heart beat in his ears and he wondered if Dean could hear it too, despite the screech of the monsters around them. He was a statue, fixed on his brother’s face and blind to the lurking risk of death. Sam was more frightened than any vampire could ever make him. Dean Winchester, however, never missed a beat. 

“On your left!” 

Dean’s voice was the same as Sam remembered it; he wanted to run from it until his body gave way under exhaustion. Suddenly, a shot rang in Sam’s ears.

“Wake up, Sammy!” 

Every nerve in Sam’s body was a live wire. On Sam’s left a vampire with a bullet hole between his eyes was regaining his footing and coming for the young Winchester. Sam hacked through the monster’s neck with his machete, splattering blood on his shaking arms. He jerked his head to the right to find Dean taking on four vampires at once, a gun in one hand and an axe in the other. 

“Two of these mother fuckers belong to you,” Dean shouted through clenched teeth.

Sam kept his eyes on the beasts and away from his big brother. He chose the two vampires on the left and, like he had outside, flung his machete forward— one down, but only just. Anxiety was affecting his aim. The second vampire turned on him, privy to his games now. Sam pulled the knife plastered to his thigh from its sheath and produced his firearm from his jeans, even if only to slow the bitch down. She was young, and Sam recognized her from the news as some high school girl that had gone missing a month ago. Sam aimed his gun at her throat and frantically fired twice but she did not slow down. She sprinted forward, enraged. Sam jumped to the side as she lunged at him. Her grip caught his ankle and she collided with the ground, her teeth aimed for his flesh. Sam stomped his free foot against the vampire’s spine and reached for her ponytail. Her neck cracked as he yanked her head backwards and dropped his body forward to slit her throat. Half way through her jugular he yanked hard and her head came free of her shoulders, causing Sam to stumble back and drop the dead weight in his hands. 

Dean was finishing his work quickly. Sam caught his brother’s eye for an instant just as the older Winchester swung his arms wide, preparing for a deathblow. Sam dropped his weapons and ran. He heard Dean win his fight just as he stepped outside the decrepit building, but he kept going. He heard Dean start to follow him so he sped up. Sam moved as fast as his legs would carry him, ignoring the burn in his lungs and the wind causing his tears to feel as if they were cutting his cheeks. He reached his car after a moment or two, but he felt as though he had been sprinting for hours. Before he could yank his door closed, all grace forgotten, Sam heard Dean’s voice yell to him. 

“This sure as hell doesn’t look like Stanford to me, Sammy!” 

Sam twisted the key and punched the gas.


	3. Seeing Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains anxiety and panic attacks.

Sam drove in, out, and around Moocroft, Wyoming for three hours or so, until the panic attack he was fighting began to make it hard for him to see the road or control his direction. He made it to his apartment by the time dawn was blinding him, praying he hadn’t been followed. His head thundered and he fumbled with his keys. Inside, Sam fell onto the floor and wept with his head against his knees. His breath came staggered and short and at times felt as though it wouldn’t come at all. He didn’t sleep until the anxiety exhausted him, and when his eyes cracked open again it was nearly seven pm. Sam’s shift at the bar started at nine. 

He fingered for his cell in his pocket but felt nothing. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The bar’s time-off policy was six hours notice except in extreme situations. To him the return of his brother was extreme. To Sam the sight of Dean was enough to suffocate him. Dean’s voice caused Sam more emotional turmoil than he thought he could handle. Sam’s dreams had been plagued with Dean’s scent and rough hands. Even now he was forcing memories of Dean protecting him, teaching him, drinking with him, and visiting him back into the dark pit he had confined them to before last night’s events set them free. 

Sam’s body ached from the hunt. He coughed and his voice came hoarse and low, a product of hours of screaming out his brother’s name and swallowing down tears. But still yet he forced himself to stand. Sam knew that if he called in, faked some emergency, his coworker, Hally, would be forced to fill in for him. And Hally, twenty-one with a four-year-old, couldn’t be stuck at the bar all night away from her son. So Sam cursed his clothes as he fought to shed them, hoping a shower would make him look more alive. He didn’t have the energy to wash, so he let the water rain over his body. It was so hot it made his toes curl and he hoped desperately that it would burn his desire, his fear, his memories, everything he knew about Dean out of his heart and mind and into the depths of the sewers. Alas, when he no longer had the time to stand under the water it was cold, and every thought he’d ever had about his brother still resided within him. 

Sam got dressed without looking in the mirror. He didn’t eat for fear that he couldn’t keep it down. When it was time for him to leave he gripped his keys so tightly they nearly cut into his fingers. He tried to gather up the courage to walk outside, thinking about Hally and her son. He used to spend a lot of time thinking about Hally and her son. He had forced it, tried dating her, courting her, and begging himself to love her. But when he was with her he only ever saw Dean. So he had apologized and he had moved on from trying. 

As he got in his car Sam hoped that Dean had already left town. Maybe Dean didn’t want to see him, hated him even. But Sam knew that would be worse. Each of the possible outcomes seemed worse than the others, and Sam realized long ago keeping their relationship on the line between lies and the truth was too hard for him to handle. Now that Dean had found him, it looked as though he would soon be on the run again. 

Sam’s drive was short and he looked at every car from the corner of his eye. He never passed the Impala and he never passed Dean. At the bar the parking lot was sparsely decorated. Again no sign of the Impala and Sam knew that should’ve made him breathe easier, but it didn’t. He tried to think of the positives. This was the only bar in town that didn’t have a pool table and the only one that didn’t serve food. He hoped those facts increased his odds. He pretended not to know that now that Dean was here his brother could find him if he wanted to. Sam slipped in through the side door and forced a smile at Hally as he fitted his apron. 

She nodded to him. “Hey there, Sam,” her greeting was soft as he traded places with her behind the bar. 

“Hally,” he returned. “How’s the day— day been?” He had to clear his throat mid-sentence. 

“Smooth,” she nodded as she finished wiping up a spilled drink. 

“Go home with Alfie,” Sam produced his own dishrag. “I’ll take care of things.” Sam spotted Rony in his usual seat. “You’re here early, Ron.”

“Carol’s got some book club. I think it was The Shadow of the Wind this week. I told her my book club reading was Jack Daniels and Scotch,” he laughed like biker Santa Clause. Then his voice lowered. “Hey Hally,” he called as she started to make her way out. “You gon’ warn Sam about the loiterer?” 

Hally stepped back to pat the old man’s arm. “Oh be nice to that guy, Rony.” She leaned closer to the two men. “Sam, that guy in the corner by the door…” she trailed off, nodding to a hunched over customer with his back to them. 

Sam squinted through the smoky haze. 

“He’s been here since open. Nursed one beer ‘til I finally gave him another on the house two hours ago. He looks pretty darn rough; I just didn’t have the heart to make him leave. You can if you want, but… don’t be too hard on the guy.” Hally straightened up, her happy demeanor returning. “And don’t let Father Ronald get a hold of him!” She and Rony laughed in unison. 

Sam was still squinting at the man in the corner as Hally made her exit. Two beers since two o’clock didn’t sound like Dean. He hadn’t seen the Impala; the man hadn’t moved. Sam wasn’t sure who it was. 

“Any who,” Hally’s words cut through the chatter. “I’ll see ya, Sammy!” 

Sam flinched violently as the side door banged shut. The loiterer in the corner jolted to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. Sam now knew before the man turned that it had to be Dean. More to the point, the outline of the man’s heaving shoulders was now more clear and one that Sam had spent a lifetime staring after. The chatter of the bar didn’t stop. It was as if only Sam could hear the silence. Neither Winchester moved and neither spoke. Rony, who had heard the chair fall, turned on his stool. 

“I don’t like this guy, Sam,” the old man muttered. 

Sam didn’t answer. He watched his big brother right the fallen seat and walk through the front door without a second glance. The sound of the bell made Sam shiver. 

“What the hell was that nonsense?” Rony was still watching the door, unaware that the young bartender behind him was furiously wiping sweat from his brow. 

Sam had to turn away, had to pretend he was going straight back to work. “Beats me!” 

Rony bristled. “Well good riddance.”

Again Sam was silent, but he knew that was not the last he had seen of Dean Winchester.


	4. Twitching and Shaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains anxiety and vomiting.

An hour later Sam was splashing water on his face in the bathroom. His body shook. Three hours after that, when Carol arrived, he was dropping her drink and she was asking him about his night and day and if there was anything he needed to talk about. Thirty minutes following, Rony was joining in. 

“I know I’m a jokester about being a big man, Sam, but jokes is all it is. Why don’t you grab a scotch, sit with us, let us be your friends? It’s harder not to have friends, believe me!” 

Sam wondered how he must look to them. How grief stricken he must seem for Rony to be offering his ear. How haunted his hollow eyes were as they avoided direct contact with the eyes on the other side of the bar top. Could they tell he was exhausted and terrified? Could they feel the waves of his anxiety causing the light fixtures to sway? “It’ll pass, guys. A rough night is all—”

“Sammy,” Carol burned him unknowingly. “We’re old, not blind.”

“I’m the first to pull out the shovel and burry my problems,” Rony continued pushing Sam to participate in show and tell. “But I ain’t never seen you look like this,” he jutted a finger in Sam’s direction. “I know you won’t be telling us; you woulda done it by now.” He yanked a pen from his pocket and began jotting something down on a stained napkin. “But come by if you need a friend, son.” 

Sam nodded. He couldn’t remember a time when someone had called him son out of genuine concern. He pocketed the address and wished he could drop by their place, wished he could confide in someone besides the bare walls of his home. After that Rony and Carol changed the subject. They focused more on themselves than on their young friend and half an hour later they were leaving well before close. 

“Close up early, Sam. We won’t tell.” Rony grinned as he paid for much more than he had bought. “Keep it, I’m retired— a pension pays my bills.”

Carol smiled at her husband before turning on Sam. The soft warmth of her gaze did nothing to calm the chills cascading down Sam’s spine. She waited, as if expecting him to return her smile. He tried, but failed. At last she again whispered, “Be safe.” Then the couple left and doorbell bleated in the silence.

Sam stayed the extra hour until close. No one came in. He cleaned up the bar in slow motion. He tried to wipe more sweat from his skin than he actually produced. His own breath hurt his lungs. As he went to lock up the cash register his eyes fell on the last bottle of whiskey. So, he put some of Rony’s gifted money in the box and locked it away. Then he and his alcohol stole out to his car. 

Sam fully expected Dean to be waiting for him when he opened the door to the outside world, but the parking lot was empty and he released his held breath. He made it to the driver’s side door of his car unscathed. He deposited his whiskey in the passenger seat. Then he forced his key into the ignition. His car wouldn’t start. Sam’s head hit the back of his seat after three or four turns of just trying for a sound. He got out on autopilot and lifted the hood. There, where his battery should have been, was an empty space. Sam’s eyes closed. There was nowhere to go. 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice wasn’t soft because he wasn’t speaking to himself. He addressed his brother to the wind knowing that, even if he couldn’t see the estranged man, he would get a response.

“If I give this back to you are you gonna run away from me again?” Dean stepped forward from behind a junk car by the road, battery in hand. He stopped just short of Sam and put the car part on top of Sam’s trunk. The thud of the battery coincided with a squint of agony on Sam’s face. 

“What the hell are you doing here, Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes fixed on his engine. He gritted his teeth in determination. “Came for the vampires,” he lied. 

“Bullshit!” 

Dean’s sudden, harsh tone jolted through Sam’s body and his head snapped up. He was eye to eye with his dreams now, with his nightmares. 

“I looked…I fucking looked everywhere for you! Four fucking years!” Dean’s arm shot out and his fingers gripped Sam’s shoulder. 

Sam nearly collapsed but he managed only to jerk away. “Don’t touch me,” he blurted. 

Dean threw his hands up in exasperation. His eyes narrowed. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Sam scrambled for words, a lie that could get him by, anything but the truth. “I don’t want you here, Dean.” His brother’s name tasted like acid. “I left that life behind for a reason. You, dad, all of it.” He was stuttering, rambling, playing up his hatred of hunting and everything that went with it— everyone that went with it. 

Dean’s arms fell to his side. “Sure as hell didn’t look like you’d left it all behind last night.” His voice was the final dry day in a drought before a fire consumed entire towns. 

Sam grimaced. For four years he’d been lucky enough to have chosen a town where nothing happened. No monsters, no hunters, nothing but the same people that had been born there, dying there of old age. Now, his luck had bled and died and was laying back at that barn, just outside the doors. 

“So what,” Dean continued when Sam was silent. “You lied to me for a year? Why didn’t you just tell me to fuck off when you told dad to? Huh? Were you scared? Did you pity me? Use me for boos until you were tired of me? You quit school, Sam! What happened? Did you screw up, flunk out? What the hell happened?”

Sam crossed his arms in determination. He stared at some spot in the distance over Dean’s shoulder. “I just realized that…You just have no place in my life.” The words sped out of his lips and Sam swallowed hard, beginning to think that making Dean hate him was the only escape for them both.

Suddenly Dean’s arm was drawing back and Sam’s ass was hitting the ground. The younger Winchester tasted blood on his lips. 

“That was for lying. And don’t tell me what you just said wasn’t a fucking lie. It was, it had to have been, because the Sammy I know wouldn’t say that to me.”

Sam’s pain and fear was shifting to anger. Or maybe he was forcing the fury out of his pores to distract himself from the truth boiling below the surface of his skin. Anger was his scapegoat, and he shot it at Dean with excellent aim. “You don’t know me at all!”

“God dammit Sam, I raised you!”

“Some fucking job you did!” Sam was fighting for his breath, fighting to keep Dean out of his mind, resigned to the fact that the older man had long ago infected and consumed his heart. 

With wide eyes Dean swung at his brother again. Sam kept himself low and charged with his shoulder into Dean’s ribs. The older Winchester staggered backwards. 

“Stay the hell away from me,” Sam warned. “Leave.”

“No.” 

Sam’s fist connected with his brother’s jaw in what he hoped would be the broken straw that sent Dean far away from him. But the older Winchester had always been stubborn. Dean retaliated and soon the two men were engaged in the first brawl they’d had since Sam was sixteen. 

“Tell me the fucking truth about why you left! What don’t I know if you’re such a stranger?” Dean screamed at his brother with every swing.

“It’s none of your god damn business!” Sam’s voice was clogged with mucus and blood. 

“Then what did I do wrong, huh? Where did I screw up so much?” Dean had his brother on the ground and was attempting to hold him in place.

“Fuck off!” Sam was becoming more desperate by the second. Every contact with his brother’s skin sent static through his hair. The older Winchester was leaning perpendicularly above the younger. He had his knee in Sam’s gut and his forearm pressed against Sam’s shoulders. Sam kicked off the ground and shoved his knees into Dean’s side with the hope that his brother’s stance would falter enough for him to roll away. 

Instead Dean let his body weight collapse onto Sam. The two struggled until Dean at last had a leg on either side of Sam’s waist. “WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO,” he spat. “To make you hate me so goddamn much that you didn’t even call?!”

Sam wanted to pretend Dean hadn’t said that, pretend that he didn’t know how much pain he had caused him, and pretend that Dean didn’t feel that pain at all. He slammed his eyes shut in an attempt to erase hundreds of dreams in which Dean had straddled him just like this but for a very different reason. In panic, he shot his torso forward and smacked his palms against his brother’s shoulders. Before he could shove Dean off of him, however, Sam felt a twitch against his abdomen, one that definitely did not come from his body.


	5. Confession and Sin

Sam gasped for breath. He thrust Dean backwards hard enough to cause his big brother’s back to hit the gravel. Sam struggled to his knees and crawled to the dirt at the edge of the lot. He’d seen Dean’s eyes widen, felt his brother’s twitching erection against his stomach. Sam’s mind scrambled for the cause behind it all as he gasped for breath. Maybe Dean had been thinking about someone else, maybe the friction of their clothes had caused it and it had nothing to do with either of them. Sam’s eyes clinched until they hurt. He coughed and sputtered. He begged for any reason that didn’t involve Dean wanting, loving, or being turned on by him because that wasn’t possible. That was sinful and sickening. That was everything Sam had coveted and cowered from since he was eighteen years old. If he let himself believe it was true now, when it shouldn’t and couldn’t be, the façade of a world he had built would crumble. And he would have wasted years of a life he could have been enjoying with his brother.

“Sam?”

Dean’s voice was now more than he could handle. The younger Winchester retched any and all food or fluid from his quaking body into the weeds below him. Suddenly there were hands pulling his hair back from his face. That was the only place Dean touched him and Sam was grateful for the care his brother took.

“When’s the last time you had a haircut, Sammy,” the older Winchester’s voice was light and sweet like whip cream. His joke was halfhearted and spoken with cracked words, but it was still a joke. It was still characteristically Dean.

Sam felt his lips turn up on the edges while he held his breath in an attempt to slow it. His lungs were tight and his face swollen. Dean was blowing cool air across the back of his neck and Sam couldn’t decipher whether or not it was making things easier. He wanted it to make things easier. He fought to close his eyes and imagine what his life might be like if he and Dean were just brothers. What if he wasn’t incestual refuse? What if he didn’t need Dean like he needed water? What if he hadn’t imagined his brother having a hard on for him— because that’s all it could have been, a day dream. Sam pretended that Dean wouldn’t beat him or hate him if he knew that most nights he fought off delusions of Dean doing exactly what the older man was doing now, holding Sam’s hair and making him feel safe.

When his breath slowed and his stomach’s agony subsided, the young Winchester got to his feet. Dean moved as if to help him but Sam shook his head. For a moment both men were mute. Each took a few steps in opposite directions and each stared at the ground, their hands, the car, anything but each other.

Sam glanced up at the stars. “Sorry.”

“What for,” Dean asked incredulously.

Sorry for craving you with a passion that invokes hallucinations, Sam thought bitterly, all the while thinning the line his lips formed.

“I should be the one apologizing…” Dean rubbed his palm across his chin. “I’m sorry I beat your ass.”

Sam shrugged, not laughing. “I hit you back.”

The color was draining from Dean’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave after last night. I’m sorry about what I…what uh…”

“Sorry about what,” Sam’s voice was almost accusatory.

“Nothing. I mean… come on, Sam,” Dean begged. “Don’t do this chick flick bull shit. You know what I’m trying to say. I’m sorry about what just happened. Thought I had it… uh… That’s probably why you left in the first place, right? Because I am… I was…” Now Dean was the one rambling and ringing his hands. “Anyways I’m not here to get between you and that girl— the one that called you Sammy. Like I said I should’ve left but I thought— something that wasn’t the fuckin’ case.”

Sam’s mind swam and spun in a whirlpool of questions. His brother’s apologies were forcing his hand, making him rethink what he thought was a fantasy brought on by panic. The truth teased and hid from him with every word that passed Dean’s lips. What had Dean thought that was now not true? What something had his big brother been searching for? Sam’s feet stepped towards his brother without him giving them permission to do so.

“Hally and I aren’t together. I’ve asked her not to call me that.” Why did he say that? Why wasn’t he just telling Dean to leave? He should have been! He should have been pushing Dean away harder than ever because every second their conversation continued it felt as though the darkness of the world was folding around them. It felt as though demons were waiting to enrapture their souls.

“Why,” Dean’s voice penetrated Sam’s self-loathing and fear.

“Never liked it,” Sam lied quietly. He couldn’t rip his mind away from Dean’s sentiment about interrupting he and Hally. Interrupting how? Why did that matter to his brother at all?

“I meant why aren’t you with her?” Dean was stalling.

So was Sam, biding his time and biting his lip. He swayed on his feet, walking an invisible rope between confession and sin. “We just aren’t well-suited for each other.”

“So you tried to be,” Dean’s voice cracked mid-sentence.

Sam stood frozen. If he told Dean that he had tried to love Hally what would his brother ask next? What would Sam say if Dean wanted to know why, why hadn’t Sam fallen for the pretty girl with the hopeful heart?

Dean’s lips formed an ‘o’ of understanding that yes, Sam and the girl had put in the effort but something had kept them apart. “Should I stop calling you Sammy,” he asked tentatively.

“It doesn’t matter.” Another lie, Sam couldn’t imagine Dean calling him anything else.

Again the silence waged the war between them, their list of things to discuss was dust in the wind. They shuffled, coughed, rubbed hands through their hair, and every so often one Winchester would glance over with the hope that the other wouldn’t catch them looking. After a minute or so Dean spat on the ground.

“You’re not going to tell me the whole truth are you? About why you left?”

Sam crossed his arms and stared back at the bar in anguish. He thought about the bottle of whiskey in his passenger seat, wondering if that would make it easier to look his brother in the eye.

“Well then, it uh… It was good to see you Sammy,” he paused. “Sam,” he corrected himself. “I guess it’s time for me to get out of here, huh?”

“No!” Sam was suddenly all talk and action, surprising even himself. Why did he say that?! Regret hit him instantly; guilt painted the walls of his mind. Telling Dean ‘no’ was one of the first true statements he’d made to his brother all night. Now they stood in the same place they began, but it was Sam’s move this time.

Dean knew it too, if he wasn’t on his way out then what were they to do? “Why the hell not?”

Sam scrambled for an answer. He nodded to his car. “I figure after four years and no phone call I owe you at least one drink.” Sam tried to play the role of the jokester, but neither Winchester laughed.


	6. Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight details in previous chapters have been edited before posting this chapter.

Back in the bar Sam instinctively took up his work position and poured a generous amount of whiskey into two beer mugs.

“You gonna sit down or is this strictly business,” Dean questioned, eyeing his brother’s stance behind the bar.

Sam grimaced. Even with the expanse of bar top between them, Dean’s scent was intoxicating. But it was he who had told Dean to stay, gone so far as to offer him a drink. Sam knew there was no turning back; it was all or nothing. So, the young Winchester found his way to a stool beside his brother. Their knees bumped as Sam sat down and Dean gave a sudden, gruff apology. Sam shrugged and took a long pull on his drink. Dean followed suit. Then, for the first time that evening, both brothers had something to say.

Sam sat his glass down harshly. “Dean—”

But the older Winchester was already speaking. “I—”

Both men paused. Dean cracked a slight grin; Sam cleared his throat.

“Can I go first?” Sam’s voice was shaky. The sudden influx of whiskey had set fire to the blood in his veins. He’d brought this on and if he didn’t get his words out now, he might never.

“As long as you give me the truth, brother,” Dean allowed.

“I expect the same.” Sam held the whiskey on his tongue before letting it burn his throat.

“Even if it’s chick flick,” the older Winchester agreed. He, too, was throwing down his beverage.

Sam took a deep breath. “Did I imagine that out there when we were fighting.” The words tumbled from his lips, tripping over themselves on the way.

Even still, Dean caught every one. “Of course not. What does that even mean, Sam? I wish to hell you had imagined it!”

Sam blinked.

“Not like that, I just… I dunno Sam, I wasn’t ever going to bring it up again when I found you— if I found you!”

“Again?” Sam’s glass was nearly empty. For him, Dean’s answer posed more questions than it answered.

Dean, apparently, was also full of confusion. He sat stunned. “Yes again! Isn’t that why you left?”

“I’m not even sure what _that_ is, De,” Sam mumbled. It was the first time he’d used the shortened version of his brother’s name in years. It felt good, familiar.  Despite that sentiment, however, Sam felt himself tensing up, anxiety ridden over the answers he would soon have to give and receive.

“Why did you leave Samm—,” Dean stopped short of the ‘y’.

Here it was, the question Sam had spent so long avoiding and lying to. He refilled his glass solemnly, desperate to be drunk by the time he spilled his incestual guts. His fingers clenched the glass and he drank quickly.

Dean knew his brother too well. “We gonna wait here until you’re drunk enough to answer me?”

“As long as I’m too drunk to care if you leave,” Sam muttered more to his whiskey than to his brother.

Dean waited, a mask of patience plastered on his face.

Sam acknowledged to himself that his opinion on Dean leaving had gone from ‘when’ to ‘if.’ The situation had undoubtedly given him more hope than he desired to believe. Blissful thoughts permeated his haggard wall of lies and facades. If he had imagined nothing, should he still fear the truth hanging in the air? Sam dreaded jumping to conclusions, but still begged that his assumptions could be correct. His heart thundered in his chest. His nerve endings danced frantically under his skin. His breath caught in his throat.

“I left because I’m in love with you.” Sam was careful to keep things present tense, determined not to have to face admitting a truth like this again.

The older Winchester flung his arm out, knocking his glass on its side. It rolled across the bar top, spilling its contents onto the floor. Dean’s hand gripped Sam on the side of his neck just under his ear and yanked him forward. Their lips smashed together, their hot, whiskey breath mingling and drawing their tongues to meet in the middle. Sam clung hungrily to the sleeve of Dean’s black t-shirt.

Soon, however, the shock rocketed through Sam’s body. He shoved Dean off of him with wide eyes as he searched for answers in his brother’s face. He gasped once.

Dean was stunned too. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he stuttered, all misuse of the nickname forgotten. “I didn’t think, Sam, I’m sorry!”

Sam’s ears rang and his nostrils flared at the revelation of what had just occurred. He cursed his anxiety for causing him to cut the kiss short, but giving in to someone he had spent so long running from needed more consideration than he had been able to give it. He was panicked and unsure of his past and his future. He took a long desperate drink straight from the bottle.

“Fuck, I should’ve asked, Sam. I’m—”

Sam shook his head violently, unable to listen to Dean apologize again. “I just didn’ … I needed to think first.”

“I didn’t think either,” Dean confessed. “I just felt …” Dean borrowed the whiskey bottle from a still shaken Sam and took an unsure drink before letting the bottle rest on the bar top.

“Felt what?” Sam’s voice cracked. He was determined to dig for answers, to blow the truth wide open.

“Relief,” came the gruff response.

Sam’s feet hit the floor. “Relief?” He walked sloppily behind the bar, intending to wipe up the spilt alcohol. The room was devoid of speech for a moment. The gentle clinking of glasses on the shelf below the bar top drowned out the quiet as Sam nudged them in an attempt to stretch a rag across the wood. Suddenly he turned his back to his brother and slapped his rag down into the sink basin.

“Fucking relief,” he scoffed to himself.

“Sam?” Dean leaned forward with his hand extended, reaching for Sam’s arm.

“I hate myself, Dean.” He lurched away. “I’ve spent every day since I turned eighteen trying to combat the vomitus thoughts that I have about you and me … and you’re fucking relieved?” Sam faced his brother and hoisted his ass onto the back counter. He slouched forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees.

“Why did— did you think I left? What could’ve been so shitty that _this_ alternative is relieving?” Sober Sam knew the answer to his own question… the latter question, that is. Had the tables been turned, and it was Dean who had spent his life hiding, the only reason worse than Sam’s own would be if Dean had hated him. If Dean had abandoned everything he knew in the name of abhorrence rather than affection Sam’s mind would’ve been lost to pain and suffering. With the little sobriety he had left, Sam hoped he had not put Dean through such a hell.

Tipsy Sam, on the other hand, didn’t care if he knew some of the answers already. Tipsy Sam was confused and frustrated. He wanted every word spelled out before him until he knew all the specifics, until both his and Dean’s thought lines were diagramed and dissected. Until he knew whether or not he could kiss his brother any time he wanted.

“I thought you left because of me, Sammy.”

Dean’s words stormed through Sam’s thoughts like a raging fire. Was Dean about to tell him that he had spent their time apart suffering much like Sam had? Or would his brother confess that, on second thought, Sam had been right to despise all that he felt within himself?

Dean inhaled sharply and then huffed. “I thought you left because I could never hide how desperately I wanted to fuck you!”


	7. What do you want?

In the bathroom of the bar the sink faucet always dripped. Both Winchesters could hear that faucet now in the shocked silence that had followed Dean’s words. Sam’s eyes were wide and, through the skylight, dawn was beginning to cling to his tired face. He couldn’t find the words to respond. His mouth opened and closed and opened and closed again. Finally, he found his voice long enough to ask:

“Is that all it was? An— an aim to get laid?”

To the surprise of the young Winchester, Dean laughed. It was a harsh and humorless laugh. It was a laugh filled with desperation. “Would be easier if it was, wouldn’t it?”

Sam thought about that. No, it wouldn’t be easier. Sam would rather run from Dean for the rest of his life than be nothing more than a piece of ass. “Not for me.”

Dean’s eyes poured over Sam’s skin. “No, not for me either.” Dean picked up the whiskey bottle and brought it close to his lips, but he didn’t take a drink. A thought interrupted his actions and he paused, his eyes squinting into the dwindling liquid within the brown glass.

“That’s not all it was— is,” he corrected himself quickly. “That’ll never be all it is.” Dean smacked the bottle back down onto the wood. “If you’re sickened by it, I understand. If you hate yourself and you left to save yourself or whatever, I fuckin’ get it. I’ll leave if you want me to; but for the love of god hate me instead. Hate me because I don’t hate myself and I don’t hate _it…_ I’ll go, Sam. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

“Why?” Sam knew what he hoped Dean would say, but he needed to hear it out loud.

“Because I love you, dammit. I love you and I don’t give a fuck about my soul, or my wants, or any side that I might have in this until you tell me I should. After four fucking years, all that matters to me is you, so tell me what you want.”

Sam watched his hands clasp and release. He let his fingers intertwine and grip, and then let go. He focused on Dean’s words, on Dean’s soul, and on his own soul. Was it wrong to be in love with his brother? He’d spent so long telling himself that it was, admonishing himself for wanting something so wicked. But now, with Dean just feet away from him, Sam wondered if he’d only ever thought it was horrible because he’d assumed Dean would think the same. Knowing that Dean loved him gave Sam the chance to form his own opinion, an opinion based not on fear of rejection and justification for running away, but only on the concept of incest itself. And Sam asked himself honestly if he thought it was immoral. He didn’t. Sam thought being in love was fucking worth it. So what did he want?

"I want you to make love to me.”

“Fucking finally,” Dean groaned. He jumped to his feet and stalked towards Sam with purpose in his step.

Sam was frozen in place, his eyes wide and hopeful. In a moment Dean stood just between Sam’s knees. The determination in the older Winchester’s eyes had not faltered, but still he paused.

“You say the word and we stop,” Dean breathed.

At long last, a genuine and wide grin spread across Sam’s lips. “Not a chance.”

Dean’s arms flexed as he wrapped them around his brother and yanked Sam forward until he was the only thing holding Sam up.

The young Winchester clung tightly to his brother as Dean gripped his ass and kissed him hard, all teeth and tongue. Dean carried Sam to a table by the wall. The racket of chairs being kicked aside filled the air as Sam’s brother laid him down on the tabletop. A thankful thought in regards to having wiped down the tables and chairs crossed the bartender’s mind. Sam clung to his brother’s shirt, pulling it over Dean’s head as the older man raised up to look at him.

It was Dean’s turn to grin as he saw Sam admiring his chiseled body. His hands sought out his brother’s face, sliding down over Sam’s sharp jawline and aiming for the younger man’s neck and shoulders.

“Hope you’re not fond of this shirt, Sammy.” Dean gripped the collar of Sam’s plaid button up tightly and ripped the two sides apart, sending buttons bouncing across the floor. Then, he hungrily fell over his brother’s chest.

Sam huffed and squirmed as Dean’s teeth grazed and tugged at his nipples. He squeezed  the biceps hovering above him in an attempt to bring his brother’s lips back to his own.

Dean conceded, gripping the waist band of Sam’s jean’s tightly and using them to hoist himself forward. The older Winchester pressed his lips to his brother’s and licked his way into Sam’s mouth.

Sam groaned at the taste of Dean on his tongue. His hands tangled in Dean’s hair and he enfolded his lover’s hips tightly within his legs. Sam thrust unwillingly against Dean, his rock hard cock straining painfully against his pants. He was desperate for friction.

Sammy wasn’t the only one. Dean’s hips responded violently, thrusting against the man below him with enough force to shake the table. He heard Sam whimper into his mouth and felt his bottom lip being nibbled on. The sensation caused Dean to thrust again and both brothers’ denim clad members twitched and leaked in their boxer briefs.

Sam’s hands fell to Dean’s hips and wedged themselves between their impassioned bodies. He searched out his brother’s waistband fervently, but upon unbuckling Dean’s belt he felt a smirk against his lips as his big brother began to draw back.

Dean’s face hovered just above Sammy’s as he pushed his brother’s arms out from under his body. He trapped the bartender’s hands on the table above Sam’s head. Dean held his brother’s wrists in place with on hand. His belt hung open, the frigid buckle resting against the young Winchester’s sweaty abdomen.

“Dean,” Sam pleaded impatiently.

“Just a minute, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper as he searched Sam’s eyes. “Are you okay?” Dean ran the tip of his nose along Sam’s jawline. “Are you sure about this?”

Sam almost didn’t hear the words his brother had spoken. He turned his cheek into Dean’s and, when his lips were saddled up to Dean’s ear, he matched the quiet question he’d been asked. “Are you?”

Dean chuckled softly as his lips found Sam’s throat. He clenched his teeth around his brother’s flesh and sucked hard, drawing blood closer to the surface and discoloring the skin.

Sam’s body reacted wildly. He fought against his brother’s control of his hands, desperate to feel Dean’s smooth skin and flexing muscles.

At last Dean’s ambush eased and he flicked his tongue gently over Sam’s neck where he had left a rather angry looking hickey. “I asked first…” he thrust again. “But so you know, I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” He finally let go of his brother’s wrists.

Sam’s hand smacked against Dean’s chest and hoisted the older man up just enough for his other hand to grasp the forgotten belt. He yanked the buckle hard, slid the worn leather from each loop, and dropped Dean’s belt to the floor. Sam wasted no time on the button and zipper of his brother’s pants, all the while keeping his eyes locked on Dean’s.

“I have waited years for this, for you,” Sam stated firmly.

Dean slid his hand to the waistband of Sam’s jeans, ready to bring the younger man up to speed. “Wouldn’t wanna make you wait any longer, baby brother,” Dean smirked. He gripped Sam’s pocket with one hand and Sam’s wrist with the other. Then he pulled the tall Adonis to a standing position.

On his feet Sam watched Dean take his jeans slowly to the floor and lift first one of his feet and then the other in order to free him from the denim completely. He felt his lover place hot, breathy kisses along the cotton clad length of his shaft. Dean’s words— ‘baby brother’— rang in Sam’s ears. The term of endearment was hot, scalding even. Those words made Sam’s body quiver with need. Incest, the one aspect of his relationship with Dean that Sam had fought against, turned him on until his vision was blurred and his breath came short. He grinned with his and his brother’s new found freedom.

Dean was desperate to have Sam bare to the world before him. He ran his fingers inside Sam’s elastic waistband clumsily. He could just see the hair topping Sam’s cock.

“Dean.”

The older Winchester froze, not daring to look into the eyes of the man hovering above him. He waited.

“Could— will you… go first?” The words sounded foolish coming from Sam’s lips, but his nerves had at last gotten the better of him. What if Dean found him hideous? What if Dean changed his mind? Could he trust his big brother, trust their situation after four years of building stockades and not even trusting himself? Was Dean ready to stand naked of both mind and body before his younger half? Sam had to know.

 Dean pushed to his feet, never relinquishing his hold on Sam’s hips. He flashed a toothy grin, their faces centimeters apart.

“Are you scared, Sammy?” Dean’s voice wasn’t condescending, but his eyes showed an air of mischievousness.

Sam glanced down as he felt his brother’s hand shift to cover his cock. He bit his lip and nodded once.

“What are you scared of,” Dean pressed as his thumb wiggled its way into the opening in the front of Sam’s panties.

The young Winchester felt a calloused digit swipe at a dribble of precum on the head of his penis. His eyes fluttered closed, but still he was plagued with hesitation. In a hoarse voice Sam whispered, “Can I trust you?”

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and history before this story begins all belong to "Supernatural." This work and plot points or details within it are subject to change at any time. I will note these changes as new chapters are posted.


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